


Not Time Yet

by LulaIsAKitten



Series: StrikeFicExchange prompts [2]
Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-10
Updated: 2019-03-10
Packaged: 2019-11-14 21:17:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18060314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LulaIsAKitten/pseuds/LulaIsAKitten
Summary: Cormoran admits to Ilsa that he has feelings for Robin.Robin overhears.Set immediately after Lethal White. Minor spoilers.





	Not Time Yet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lovebeyondmeasure](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovebeyondmeasure/gifts).
  * In response to a prompt by [lovebeyondmeasure](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lovebeyondmeasure/pseuds/lovebeyondmeasure) in the [StrikeFicExchange](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/StrikeFicExchange) collection. 



> Cormoran admits to Ilsa that he has feelings for Robin.  
> Robin overhears.
> 
> Set immediately after Lethal White. Minor spoilers.

“Another beer, Corm?” Ilsa asked, waving one in his direction.

Strike grinned. “When do I ever say no?”

Ilsa laughed and passed him the beer. “Bottle opener is around somewhere,” she said.

Strike was sat at the end of the Herberts’ breakfast bar, watching the interactions in the room fondly. Ilsa was topping up her wine glass and Robin’s. Robin and Nick were working side by side at the counter, chopping vegetables and assembling spices like a well-practised team. Nick’s beer sat to one side of two open recipe books propped against the wall, hardly touched.

Ilsa passed Robin her wine glass, and Robin threw her a smile that made Strike’s heart skip even when it wasn’t aimed at him. She looked so relaxed here, so happy. It was a shame she was leaving, although Strike knew she was looking forward to moving this weekend, not wanting to outstay her welcome with his friends. An initial ten days had turned into almost three weeks, but finally Robin’s room at her new flat was available. Her soon-to-be flatmate had insisted on redecorating for her, consulting her on colours, which had touched Robin deeply. She was already forming a good friendship with him.

Ilsa had suggested tonight as a farewell dinner, and invited Strike to join them. The flowers Robin had bought as a thank you for her hosts stood in a vase on the dining table.

“Might go out for a smoke,” Strike said, standing, fishing in his pocket for his cigarettes and lighter.

“I’ll come with you.” Ilsa grabbed her wine glass. “Won’t get any conversation out of these two till dinner is well on the way.” She gave a fond glance at her husband and Robin, whose only communication as they worked was the occasional request to pass something back or forth. Robin was at the hob now, stirring spices in a pan and leaning to read the next step of her recipe. Nick was scoring chicken breasts and smearing them with curry paste.

The old friends made their way outside, sliding the patio door to behind them. Ilsa had set up the patio chairs and an ashtray on the table.

Strike sat with a grateful sigh and stretched his legs out in front of him. He lit a cigarette and contemplated the garden in the autumn evening. Darkness was creeping in already, getting earlier and earlier swiftly as it did at this time of year. Ilsa pulled the other chair round and sat too. Strike smoked, and quiet reigned for a few minutes.

“Robin looks well settled in,” he remarked presently, stubbing his cigarette out in the ashtray and wondering if he’d remembered to bring another pack.

Ilsa nodded. “Yeah, it’s been lovely having her,” she said. “I’m a bit sad she’s going, actually. Nick claims we gang up on him, but they’ve hit it off too, and they love cooking together. It was their idea to cook tonight, I suggested a takeaway.”

Strike smiled. He was looking forward to a home-made curry. It looked as though several dishes would be on offer, with two chefs on the job.

“How is she?” he asked, studiously neutral. Robin was less prickly about her mental health these days, and he believed her when she said she was doing her exercises. But the fact remained that her life had been endangered yet again, barely a month ago, when she had already been struggling. He’d appreciate the point of view of someone who saw her outside of office hours, and especially someone as astute and empathetic as Ilsa.

Ilsa nodded. “Yeah, okay, I think,” she said. She didn’t miss Strike’s sideways glance at “I think”. “She’s a little unfocused sometimes. But she seems well in herself, and she takes herself off and does her breathing exercises in the evenings. I mean, some residual effects are to be expected, right?”

Strike nodded. “It’s not a steady process, sometimes it’s two steps forward, three steps back,” he said, remembering. “But as long as she’s doing the exercises...”

He sighed. “I wondered if she might go back to therapy, but I don’t know if I can suggest it. I try not to ask her about it too much, but I have a duty as her employer.”

Ilsa shot him a sharp look that he couldn’t quite meet.

“And as her friend,” she said.

“Well, yeah, of course as her friend,” Strike said. “I just want her to be okay, and I don’t want to badger her about it.”

Ilsa looked at him, her head on one side, noting that he was still looking away from her, inspecting the garden.

“But you can ask her as her friend,” she pressed. “That’s not badgering. You’re more than just her employer now, surely.”

Strike remembered hugs, the smell of roses, the shape of Robin’s mouth against his, and said nothing.

Ilsa leaned across the table and poked his shoulder. He glanced at her.

“You might fool Robin, and Nick, and even yourself,” she said, grinning. “But not me.” She raised her eyebrow at him and waited.

Strike sighed a little, his eyes sliding away from hers again, unable to meet her clear blue-green gaze. “I guess,” he admitted. “Yeah, we’re friends.”

 _Is that what we are?_ he wondered. _Does Robin think of me as a friend?_ They worked well together, teased one another sometimes, had a warm camaraderie. But it certainly didn’t feel like his friendship with Nick or Ilsa, relaxed and easy. There seemed to be so many unsaid and unsayable things. So many things he had nearly said, and was half relieved he hadn’t and half wished he had. _Come with me. Don’t marry him. Please don’t take risks, I can’t bear it._

He took a long draught of his beer. Ilsa was still looking at him. He wished she’d stop. He idly watched Ossie, one of the Herberts’ young cats, approaching them across the garden. The cat saw him and paused, eyeing the large stranger suspiciously. Strike had not been forgiven for moving in for a few days when the kittens were new.

“Corm.” Ilsa’s soft voice dragged his reluctant gaze back to hers. “Is it more than that? For you?”

Ossie skirted around behind them and nosed hopefully at the patio door. It was pushed to, and the tiny gap left was far too small for him to fit. He sniffed hopefully and pawed at the glass.

Ilsa was still holding Strike’s gaze. He knew he’d hesitated too long, and therefore given her her answer. He sighed and looked back down at his beer.

“Yeah,” he admitted at last. It was the first time he had acknowledged it out loud. He’d barely even admitted it to himself.

Ossie miaowed.

“Cat flap is in the back door, Os,” Ilsa told him. “It’s all of ten feet that way, round the corner. You can make it.”

Ossie glared at her and scratched at the glass, but Ilsa’s attention was back on her friend. “So you’re...attracted to her?” she asked cautiously, feeling her way. Strike had never been one to talk about his feelings.

Strike lit another cigarette. He was quiet for a long minute, and Ilsa wondered if he was even going to answer.

“It’s more than that,” he said finally, quietly. He glanced across again, and Ilsa’s heart contracted a little at the pain in his eyes. She reached across and gave his arm a squeeze.

Ossie miaowed again and scrabbled at the glass with both front paws.

“Oh, for goodness’ sake, cat!” Ilsa muttered. She leaned back in her chair and pushed the patio door a few inches to open it wide enough for him. A delicious smell of frying spices wafted out.

Ossie regarded the now open door, and sat down and looked at it. Ilsa rolled her eyes and turned back to Strike.

“Are you going to say anything?” she asked gently.

Strike snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Why not?”

“She’s my colleague, and friend, and employee. She’s just been threatened, yet again, in the course of working for me. She’s married—”

“Divorcing.”

“All the same,” Strike said, suddenly thinking of Charlotte, the pull she still had on his emotions sometimes. “You don’t just switch all that off, when you leave someone. It’s a long process. And she needs to focus on getting her divorce sorted.”

Ilsa sighed. He was right. “But then...she’ll be free.”

“Ages away,” Strike said. “Anything could happen between now and then. She could meet someone much more suitable. Someone her age, without all the emotional and physical baggage, someone who wants a house in the suburbs and a Labrador and two point four children.”

“She’s literally just walked away from all that.”

Strike scowled. He really wished he hadn’t said anything now. Plausible deniability had always worked in the past. Why had he allowed Ilsa to get under his defences tonight?

“Doesn’t mean it isn’t what she wants,” he countered. “She just didn’t want it with that twat, and who can blame her?”

Ossie, realising that he was getting no more attention on the patio, strolled into the kitchen, announcing his arrival with a miaow.

“Os!” Nick called. “Ossie boy, look what I’ve got,” and he waved a chicken scrap at him. “Where’s your brother?” Ossie looked at him, and then followed eagerly as Nick headed for the utility room where the cats’ bowls lived, winding around Nick’s feet and nearly tripping him up.

Robin stood back, satisfied that her curry was bubbling nicely, smiling at Nick chatting away to Ossie in the utility room. She took the wine bottle from the fridge and topped up her glass, then opened another beer for Strike. She grabbed the wine bottle again and moved to the patio door, which sat ajar. She paused, a bottle in each hand, trying to slide her feet into her pumps that lived by the door.

“She might not want that, though,” Ilsa was saying. “People change. Don’t assume.”

Strike’s voice, low and rumbling, carried to Robin clearly.

“So what do you want me to do?” he demanded, sounding impatient. “Just waltz into the office one day and go, ‘Hey, Robin, I think I might be in love with you. But I still have no money, or a house, or any desire to have kids, or even a fully working body, and I’m nearly forty. How about it?’”

Robin froze.

Ilsa chuckled. “Well, no, obviously,” she said, fondly. “Is that how you normally approach women?”

Strike just grunted.

“Just wait and see,” Ilsa said. “You’re right, it’s too soon. She needs to get divorced, and get well. And in the meantime, you can build up the business, and maybe get a proper flat. I’m sure she won’t care about all of that stuff anyway. Not if she cares about you too.”

“Yeah, but she doesn’t. Not in that way.”

“Not yet, maybe. But she will. It’s you.” And Ilsa reached out and touched Strike’s cheek.

Strike sighed. “Can we please change the subject now?” he complained, and Ilsa laughed. “Sure,” she said fondly.

Robin backed away from the door quietly. Behind her, Nick was emerging from the utility room.

“Ah, more beer, good plan,” he said. He paused and looked at her. “You all right?”

“What? Er, yeah.” Robin blinked, trying to gather her scrambled thoughts back together. Her heart was skipping about in her chest.

Nick leaned across and scanned the recipe books. “I think we can have a break,” he said. “Oven’s on, those pans are simmering, and it’s too early to start the rice. Let’s go see what the others are up to.”

Robin nodded, and passed him the bottles she was still holding. “Just popping to the loo,” she said. “I’ll join you out there.”

Nick nodded and headed out to the patio. Robin hurried down the hall and shut herself in the little toilet. She stood and stared at herself in the mirror, at her flushed cheeks and bright eyes. Hopefully everyone would just think it was the heat of the oven and hob.

 _I think I might be in love with you._ The words echoed in her head and her heart swelled, feeling like it might burst with happiness and nerves. _It’s not just me,_ she thought. _I didn’t imagine the connection._ Her pulse raced and her hands shook. She turned the cold tap on and bent over the sink, splashing a little water onto her heated cheeks. She straightened back up and looked at herself in the mirror again. _I think I might be in love with you._

She gave herself a mental shake, and sighed. Ilsa was right, though. It was too soon. Matthew had already been hassling her for an address to send solicitors’ letters to. His messages were curt and angry. The divorce wasn’t going to be easy, and it would be made much, much harder by any hint of a relationship between Robin and her boss, something that had long existed in Matthew’s suspicions anyway.

And also... She needed time, she acknowledged to herself. Anything that happened between her and Strike could never be casual, she knew that. They were deeply connected. She needed to know she was ready, ready to give her all, because anything less than that would be unfair to him and ultimately disastrous for their relationship, as friends or more. And despite her fear of being alone, having had Matthew by her side for a decade, a part of her was looking forward to finding out who she was without him. Making her own friends, following her own interests. Maybe one day...

Robin flushed the loo and washed her hands. She tucked what she had overheard into a little corner of her heart, ready to take out again later and examine and ponder. For now, she put a smile on her face and went back out to join her friends.

 


End file.
